


Count

by 3BeesAndCoffee3



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek Hale, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Attacks, Blood and Gore, Christ look at that word count lmao, Creepy, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dehydration, Derek Hale is Bad at Feelings, Disturbing Themes, Emissary Stiles Stilinski, Emotionally Hurt Stiles Stilinski, Eventual Romance, Horror, Love Confessions, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Nightmares, Not Sexually tho bc ew, Panic Attacks, Psychological Horror, Rouge Pack, Sensory Deprivation, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Trauma, Vomiting, anyways here you go ig, kind of, the things I do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-11-13 01:15:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18022043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3BeesAndCoffee3/pseuds/3BeesAndCoffee3
Summary: Stiles is too used to being useless during a chase, he can’t let this go. They’ll show up any second and do their werewolf magic, take down the new pack before they can hurt anyone else, and after they’ll shower Stiles in compliments and reward for finding the pack and cornering them in a very, very creepy basement. Right.





	Count

**Author's Note:**

> I had way too much fun writing this! so yeah, it's over a million words of mostly horror lmao so read at your own risk but yeah!  
> all errors are my own, not been through betta. 
> 
> lemme know what you think!

The smell is like a wall, thick and putrid the second the door opens up, descending down old stairs into the basement, still submerged in darkness. Stiles covers his mouth and nose with the sleeve of his hoodie to try and block out the smell, wet and rotting. He fumbles, reaching out to try and find a light switch before he steps blindly into the darkened stairs. His hand searches along the wall but he doesn’t find anything, not even a railing to hold onto, so Stiles holds his breath and takes an anxious step forward until his foot reaches a stair. It creaks under his weight as he steps onto the first stair. One down.

The weight of his phone seems heavy in his back pocket now that it’s useless, battery long dead. He used to carry a real flashlight with him, and he kicks himself for stopping that. It takes longer than it probably should for Stiles to sink down the stairs, one at a time, hands feeling along the wall nervously with every shaky step. When he reaches his leg out, searching for the next step and doesn’t feel it, his heart races. The floor must be underneath him, just inches further apart than the stairs. The stench is stronger now, thicker and sourer. He can’t quite place the smell, but there’s death hanging heavy around him and the cold dampness of the basement doesn’t do anything for ventilation. 

He hesitates there, standing on the bottom stair, blinking into total blackness, trying to breathe through an open mouth to avoid the waves of nausea that wash over him every time he smells the air. He knows the rouge pack entered the abandoned house, Stiles saw them through the trees and frankly, there wasn’t anywhere else for them to go except hours of trees and grass. The rest of the dirty, forgotten house had been empty when Stiles searched it anxiously. Downstairs was the only place left for them to be unless they managed to slip past Stiles at some point. Part of him just wants to wait for the pack, Scott will catch up in no time, no matter how split up they were. Either Scott or someone else is certain to find him, it’s just a matter of time. They’ll find his scent and they’ll go from there. But Stiles can still hear Derek in his head, drilling them endlessly to not let the rogue pack out of their sight once they found them. It was detrimental that they track them down and find out where they’re staying.

Stiles is too used to being useless during a chase, he can’t let this go. They’ll show up any second and do their werewolf magic, take down the new pack before they can hurt anyone else, and after they’ll shower Stiles in compliments and reward for finding the pack and cornering them in a very, very creepy basement. Right. 

His fingers search again to try and find a hold somewhere on the wall, just to steady his mind and let himself have a little security before he steps down into a basement likely full of deranged werewolves. The walls are old and he can feel bits of the drywall and paint coming loose away from the wall, but it isn’t enough to take proper hold of, so he bites down on his lip and steps off of the stair. His foot doesn’t find the floor at all, and before he can regain any balance he’s toppling over the edge, hands scrambling at nothing as he falls. His left arm catches against wood, or something jagged and he feels a burst of pain as it cuts at him, splitting the skin under his hoodie and T-shirt. It all happens in a flash before he hits the ground under him, hard and on his back. The air in his lungs leaves in a harsh puff and Stiles rolls automatically onto his side, clutching his stomach at the burn from lack of oxygen. His head throbs where it connected with the ground and he wonders vaguely if he might be bleeding.

When he can finally suck in a lungful of air again, he coughs, vision twisting and spiraling even in the darkness. His only guess, as he’s finally able to asses the damage and his surroundings, is that he fell through the floor, or where the floor used to be. That would put him in, what? A sub-basement? 

“Shit,” Stiles groans as he forces himself to slowly sit up. He can’t see, there’s no light filtering in from anywhere and he’s certainly underground by now. Even when he looks up, he only sees darkness; no real way to assess how far he fell or where the stairs are. He touches his arm gingerly with a couple of fingers, where he presumably cut himself and finds it wet and stinging. He doesn’t really want to press to find out how deep the cut is, but the way it’s throbbing with his elevated pulse, he doubts it’s shallow. The last thing he really needs is stitches, the idea alone makes his skin crawl, but he pushes it aside. 

Wherever he is now is certainly the source of the smell, though. As Stiles’ breathing evens out from having it knocked out of him, he gags, chest heaving. It’s disgusting, and Stiles and Scott both spent their fair share of time around disgusting things. There’s a smell he’s familiar with, which doesn’t make the situation any better because it smells like death. It smells like rotting meat and flesh, and it’s disturbingly sweet, at the same time, almost like perfume. Stiles pulls the collar of his shirt up to try and help block it out but by now it’s too strong to do much. If the werewolves are here, they’re being silent as all hell, which means they probably aren't with Stiles, down in a basement somewhere, which honestly comes as a relief, because there’s no way he stood a chance fighting eight werewolves in complete darkness. 

“Hello?” Stiles says, stupidly. His voice comes out quieter than he expected, unsteady and muffled by his shirt. There’s no echo, but that doesn’t tell him much about where he is or the size of the space. He doesn’t stand, weary of the things around him and instead crawls gingerly forward a couple of inches. He can feel grit under his hands, the floor is filthy and he can feel bits of wood and debris around him. “Okay, let’s just get out of here,” Stiles says, even hearing his own voice say it is somewhat comforting. His lack of visual senses is starting to make Stiles dizzy and steadily more anxious.

He moves forward slowly until he fumbles across something large, like a plank of wood, he thinks. He feels along it, fingers unsteady as he does. It’s certainly wood, tiny splinters biting at his fingertips as he slides his hand over it. His best guess is it’s from the floor that fell through above, where Stiles so blindly stepped. He climbs awkwardly over the plank, searching for more, or a wall. If he can find a wall, he can find out how far down he is and how he can get out. He doesn't have to go much farther before he finds another thing laying infront of him. It’s fabric, over something soft. It feels like it might be a blanket, maybe a shirt. 

Carefully, he reaches out and grabs at a bit of the fabric and pulls, it’s stuck, maybe on something. He moves to try and free it or find what it’s caught on around the same time his brain starts to catch up. His fingers sink into the softness underneath the material, a pungent smell of decay rising from where he touches. His fingers practically go through it and Stiles jerks his hand back instantly. “Oh fuck no, there’s no fucking way,” he rasps, wiping his hand off feverishly against his jeans. There’s a distant buzz around him, insects. Flies. “Fuck.”

He fumbles to grab his phone out of his pocket, his breathing quicker every second. He presses the ‘on’ button over and over but nothing happens. He already knows what’s infront of him, he just fucking touched it, but his brain won’t quite believe it. He squeezes his eyes shut, forces himself to reach out again, let himself feel gently over it. It isn’t hard to find the bloated mass of what was once someone's face, now soft and molding away- Stiles empties the contents of his stomach on the floor to his left.

He’s shaking, chills running up his spine even though the room is spinning and he’s too hot. The smell is only harder to ignore now that he can’t pretend it’s something else, something besides an actual human corpse. The taste of bile is still thick and bitter on his tongue as he coughs several more times, doubling over onto himself as he wretches. There’s something surreal about the entire thing, something that’s more terrifying than when he and Scott had blindly stumbled onto Cora’s body. He’s alone this time, he can’t see the thing he knows is laying inches away from him. He doesn’t know who it is or was. 

There’s only a small list of missing people that come to mind when Stiles tries to think back. His dad had even made some offhand comment about how much _better_ the towns disappearances had been lately. Stiles can’t help but think the person has been here a while. 

By the time his stomach has calmed or at least given the last of its contents up, he feels like he’s been here forever. It hasn’t been more than ten minutes since he fell, he’s sure, but the edge of an ever-growing panic attack welling up inside him isn’t giving him much patience.

He doesn’t understand how they haven’t found him yet. One of them should have stumbled across the house by now, or they all decided to regroup through text and realized he wasn’t there. Allison had been in the same general vicinity as Stiles, she’ll probably find the house and call for Derek and Scott. 

Sitting on the ground by a body doesn’t satisfy anything in him, though, and he forces himself to slowly crawl around the perimeter of the body, flinching when his hand brushes against a foot. He has to at least try to get out, that way he doubles his chances of getting back with the pack and quicker. They’ll either find him trying to escape, or he’ll find them after. Stiles leaves his mouth open to breathe through, even with the buzz of too many insects around him, bouncing off of him. The smell is far worse than inhaling a couple of flies. He moves mostly on his knees, trying to avoid his hands coming in contact with anything again. He’s moved what feels like several feet forward when he feels something wet seep into the knees of his jeans. It’s cold and sticky when Stiles feels at it. 

“Ew, what the hell?” he mutters. It doesn’t really have a smell, from what he can tell, but it’s not water. “Please don’t be human goop, I already need so much therapy.” he slides his foot out to try and tell how far the substance reaches but his foot slides through it like syrup, thick and wet and sticky. It feels like a thin coat of whatever it is, but Stiles really doesn’t want to crawl through it, so he shuffles awkwardly on his feet, suddenly kind of glad no one is here to see him. If he was a werewolf or at least had Scott with him, he’d be able to make out everything in the dark, and Stiles wouldn’t have to blindly parade through a human corpse and mysterious fluids.

His foot nudges against something as he makes his way carefully through the sludge. It has resistance to it, but he can already tell it isn’t more wood. “I really, really don’t want this to be another person, okay? Can you just- not be?” Stiles’ voice is ringing loudly in his own ears alongside his heartbeat. He’s suddenly wondering the size of the space he’s in and just how many people are with him. The thought alone is horrifying and it makes him want to curl into himself and just shut down until he’s safe again. “This was supposed to be so easy. Just some weak alpha-less pack, sure. Bet my ass.”

He presses the heel of his foot into the thing ahead of him and thanks to whatever gods are out there that it doesn’t just sink into the thing like before, but Stiles already knows it’s a body, there’s no way it isn’t. Disturbingly, his brain provides that it’s likely fresher, post mortem making it harder, stiff. Great. Stiles pulls his leg back and feels his legs give out, letting him sink down and pull his legs up against his chest. He can feel the slime of whatever is on the floor soaking into his pants now, legs and all, but he really doesn’t want to move. His breathing is too fast now, too shaky and uncertain. His heart is hammering away wildly in his chest, he feels like he’s choking on it.

If the pack was out here searching all this time and they never even picked up on the smell of rotting human bodies, then what are the chances they’ll find Stiles? He doesn't have a phone to use, he doesn’t even know where he is, really. There are a couple houses out near here that got abandoned when the land was bought by new owners, but he doesn’t know where he is specifically. He doesn’t know if everyone else is busy fighting the pack Stiles so pitifully missed. They could be deep in their own issues, and that doesn’t put Stiles at the top of the list of priorities. They might not even notice he’s gone. It could be hours before anyone notices.

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut, even if he can’t see, it’s a little grounding. He thinks maybe if he yells loud enough one of them will hear him, if not Lydia or Allison than Scott or Derek are bound to with their hearing. He doesn’t see many other options, anyway. His legs feel like jelly and his body is hardly holding itself together. “Hey! Guys!” he yells loud enough he hears it bounce off of the walls he hasn’t been able to find yet. “Scott!”

He waits, counts to ten. He won’t know if they heard him until they show up, he guesses. 

Time ticks on slower and slower and Stiles resorts to tapping patterns out on the floor. It isn’t terribly comforting, really, but it gives him something to focus on and expel the nervous energy building up. “Scott, I could really use some help!” he tries again, his voice cracking. It’s so quiet his ears ring. He doesn’t hear anyone coming, even when he strains, holding his breath. 

He counts to ten again. The silence is making everything worse. It’s deafening and it makes Stiles feel small. He hates it. It doesn’t take long after that for him to start counting out loud. It feels stupid at first, knowing he’s alone, but it fills the space and that's enough. “One, two, three,” he says softly, his voice quiet enough that if someone was to walk upstairs he might be able to hear it. He doesn’t hear anything, he drums his fingers a little faster. “Four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.”

He pulls his legs in tighter against his abdomen. Being out in the open, unsure how far away a wall is from him makes him feel exposed, like one of the bodies might just grab him suddenly. “Eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen,” he mumbles, pulling his hand back from the floor to knit his fingers together instead, or pick at his nails, already bitten down to nothing. “Uh, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty.” 

He calls out a couple times in between his counting, a little louder and a little more frantic as time goes on, but he never hears anything. He pulls out his phone and tries to get it to turn on desperately, mostly just by holding down the buttons, but it doesn’t work. He wonders if anyone has even tried to call him. “Forty-two, forty-three, forty-four,” Stiles continues, his leg shaking up and down. He has too much energy from all of the anxiety and no real way to get it out. He won’t let himself crumble, though. He won’t have a stupid panic attack. “It’s fine, I’ve dealt with worse,” he says, in between numbers. It’s almost upsetting that it’s actually true, that he’s been in worse situations than hurt and stuck in a basement with two dead people. He kind of hates his life sometimes. 

He reaches 100 earlier than he’d like to admit, even with pacing his counts as evenly as possible. He doesn’t really know how long it’s been now, but it’s been long enough that he’s getting a little cold. He wonders what time it is, it has to be getting late, they’d been out looking for the pack for hours before Stiles ever even found the house. He hopes they’re already looking for him, that they have been for a while now. He doesn’t want to stay here any longer than he absolutely has to.

He sits and waits and he counts because he doesn’t know what else to do. He screams at the top of his lungs for Scott or Derek, anyone, really. There’s never any answer and he climbs higher in counting steadily until he’s almost lost track of it. The numbers tumble out of his mouth like it’s on autopilot, one after the next without any thought, whole body jittery by now.

Eventually, he can’t physically just sit there anymore. His legs are aching from holding a single, stiff position for so long and his body just needs to move. He’s too cooped up, anxiety aside his ADHD is ravenous for something to do besides count. Carefully, his whole body shaking, partially just from anticipation, he lets himself stand. He puts his arms above his head like a cover as he stands up, slowly. The last thing he wants to do is put his head through the floor or spider webs, no thanks. His hands don’t come in contact with anything and he finds he can stand fully with his arms stretched upward and he still doesn’t find anything. He isn’t sure if that just means there isn’t a ceiling (floor?) to the place under the stairs, or if it’s just higher than he can reach. 

Standing up in the room is considerably worse than crawling or sitting down. It feels endless and he feels off balance. He steps forward anyway, desperate to find a wall or some way out. He has to step awkwardly around and over the body that’s laying beside him but after that, the ground is mostly empty and flat spare some debris. He inches steadily forward, arms outstretched for anything infront of him. His feet find something before his hands and he swallows thickly. “Okay, how many things are down here, exactly?” he asks emptily. He doesn’t have much hope that it’s not something at least as disgusting as a human body if it isn’t another one. His question doesn’t take long to be answered, because even though his shoe he can feel the outline of what’s certainly a limb, maybe an arm. Stiles takes a shaky breath in. He tries to move forward and around the third body but he can’t seem to find where it ends and begins. 

Stiles furrows his brow, edging along in small side steps. The toes of his shoes stay in contact with the lumpy form of a body even as he moves on. Stiles nearly jumps out of his skin when something brushes along his arm and he stumbles back. He catches himself by grabbing onto whatever is infront of him in a moment of blind panic. It’s only after he’s regained his balance that he realizes he’s holding onto a leg, around the ankle. “Fuck!” he gasps, letting go and shaking out his hands rapidly. He feels like he needs to bathe in a vat of hand sanitizer after this. 

The leg was too far up, about level with Stiles’ elbow. It’s disturbing to try and figure out how that’s possible and his brain and body react slowly and honestly, without his permission. He reaches out again with disturbing confidence that he blames mostly on the need to confirm what he’s fairly sure is infront of him. His theory is confirmed true when he feels at least three legs, all too high and in a tangle. There’s a hand and what feels like hair that Stiles cringes away from. Infront of him, lining the far wall of the room is a pile of bodies, various sizes and in various states of decay. 

There’s nothing left to throw up, but that doesn’t stop his body from trying. He gags and doubles over, hands on his knees. He coughs and feels his mouth fill with saliva but he can’t throw up. He wishes he could with the way his gut is churning and his chest aches. He shoves his hands in his pockets to try and keep them away from the mass infront of him, just something to separate him from everything else. His brain can’t help but wonder why and how there are so many people down here. “I’m gonna die down here,” Stiles mumbles, tugging at the inside of his pockets, tangling his fingers in the fabric. 

If he does die, in a basement somewhere with a dozen bodies, he can’t help but wonder if anyone would notice. There’s a chance that he’d never be found, or wouldn’t be for a very long time. 

“God, my dad’s gonna freak, huh?” Stiles says, laughing dryly. Silence fills the space.

He waits. He stands around, he shuffles along a line of bodies, he jumps up to try and find the edge, anything to grab. He shouts some more, for Scott, for Derek, for his dad, anyone. He tries to resume counting but he can’t remember where he left off and he doesn’t want to start over. Eventually, he finds a spot on the floor that doesn’t feel wet and there are no human parts lying around, so he lays down, just on his side, hood up to try and cover his head some. It’s late enough in autumn that it’s growing cold at night and even in the humidity of the basement he still finds himself shivering. 

When he falls asleep finally after hours of staring ahead into the darkness, he dreams. He dreams of red walls, dry and peeling away like curls of ribbon. There’s a melody playing around him, distant and haunting, like a broken music box. He follows along the halls of glowing walls, feeling along the edge to guide him like he might get lost without it. The music never gets closer or further away, never rising or falling in volume. The halls wind on forever, it seems. His legs feel tired under him, like after hiking a tall mountain in the summer.

Summer. It’s hot, sweat cascades down Stiles back, making trails over his skin. The sun is blinding, hot white as it shines above his head while he continues down the hall. His throat feels dry, tastes bitterness on his tongue, he’s so damn thirsty. He can hear water trickling down like a stream or a tiny waterfall, it sounds like it’s just ahead. He breaks into a run, runs past where the walls end, runs past the music even, and then there he is, standing alone in the large space of a room. It’s walls lean and sway around him even when his footing is strong he feels off balance. He turns once, then twice on his heel in a circle, examining the room. The wall across from him drips and dribbles with a tiny flow of water, the sound echoing in the emptiness around him.

He moves forward quickly, mouth dry like it’s full of sand. He moves across the room in no time at all, doesn’t even feel himself touch the ground. He cups his hands together and presses them into the small flow of water from the wall. None of it spills, all pooling perfectly in the dip of Stiles’ palms, it makes him laugh to himself. There’s no echo when he does. Once his hands are overflowing with it he brings it to his lips and drinks, takes long sips and it never seems to empty. He lets his eyes fall shut and his head tip back. He’d been so thirsty, the cool splash of liquid in his mouth feels better than anything he can describe.

As he drinks, his thirst never seeming to end, the water grows thick as he swallows. He opens his eyes slowly to the room, watches the stream of water coming from the wall grow thick and red. His hands are still cupping the contents like he never drank any but it’s not water. “Blood?” 

Stiles wakes up covered in sweat and panting. His throat _is_ dry, he’s thirsty as hell, but suddenly that’s more off-putting. It’s not like his nightmares are new, he’s been dealing with the strange surrealness of them for years, but waking up to blackness, shaking and scared without anywhere to go is less familiar. If he was home he’d probably go curl up in a bath, or sit in the tub and let the shower spray over him until he could finally calm down. He counts his fingers, just to make sure. 

He has no idea how long he slept or what time it is, but his stomach is protesting in hunger and his eyes feel heavy. He hopes it hasn’t been a whole night, he doesn’t want to think about how long he’s been gone and how long it’s taking everyone to find him.

He tries to go back to sleep, mostly so he doesn’t think himself into a panic attack, but laying on the hard ground surrounded by the smell of decay doesn’t make that easy to do. Hours pass by, torturously slow, no real way to gauge how long it’s been when every hour and minute blend together. He knows he’s hungry, he can’t quite remember but he’s pretty sure he hasn’t eaten since he had a bowl of cereal, several hours before going out with the pack. He tries not to think too much about the gnawing in his gut, but it’s there and it isn’t getting better. 

Everything creeps on without any real indication of time except for Stiles’ burning eyes and a hungry stomach. He flips onto his back after a while, his leg is numb and tingly under him. The constant darkness is starting to make his eyes hurt and his head spin. It’s unnerving at the very least. He drifts back asleep at some point but not for very long and if he dreamt at all he doesn’t really remember it. He’s almost grown numb to the smell, at least. 

Boredom is constantly competing with the terror of what’s around him. He’d jog in place for a while if his legs didn’t already feel so unsteady and he doesn’t want to dehydrate himself any more than he already has, so mostly he just lays there. 

He’s tying and untying his hoodie drawstrings for the millionth time when he finally hears something. It isn’t a creaking floorboard or the buzzing of insects, it’s a voice, and Stiles practically breaks down in tears from that alone. “Scott! Guys!” he shouts, he’s up on his knees now, looking up into nothingness. “Down here!”

There’s no response and instead, Stiles is faced with a full thirty or more seconds of silence. He’s sure he didn’t imagine it, he couldn't have. He’d heard at least one voice, just above him, somewhere upstairs. “Hello?” he calls out again, dumbly, but he’s desperate for someone- anyone, at this point. 

He hears it again, a voice, hears floorboards creak under someone’s weight. “Someone!” he shouts out and hears something along the lines of a response, at least someone makes a noise.

Stiles waits in agony for almost five minutes, listening to someone wander around upstairs, so close to him. Finally, he hears someone on the stairs and he almost sobs in relief.

“I’m here, I’m here!” he shouts, cupping his hands into a megaphone-like shape. “I’m down here!”

The response makes Stiles’ skin go clammy and his breath catch. It’s a twisted sound, like an agonized and pained sound. It’s along the lines of a whine, bordering between human and more animal. _“ohhhh,”_ it whines, long and high pitched. “Somone’s-someone- someone’s there?”

Stiles bites his tongue hard, can feel himself start to tremble. He doesn’t recognize anything in the voice. 

“I thought I wasss- alone,” it drawls like it gets stuck on the words. It makes Stiles think of a snake. “I’m huu-ungry.”

Stiles thinks bitterly that yeah, he’s not the only one who’s fucking starved. He holds his breath because he swears his breathing is echoing in the space. At least it feels like it. 

“Does it- mmmmm, hurt? Does it hurt?” the voice asks, wavering. 

Stiles crinkles his nose. He doesn’t know what the person is rambling on about but it’s certainly creepy enough to make Stiles’ fight or flight mode kick in a little. 

“It hurts soo much, right?” it asks and Stiles manages to stay quiet. “God,” he gasps and then there’s another ongodly sounding whine that pours from its mouth. “I thh-thought, I thought I would feel _invincible_ but I feel like I’m dying. Am I dying?”

Stiles can’t quite keep his mouth shut anymore and a word trembles on his lip, the tip of his tongue. “Who are you?”

There’s a sharp intake of breath from somewhere above him that echos off of the empty walls. “ _I don’t think I know anymore,_ ” it whines. It almost sounds like a feral cat in heat. It’s twisted and awful though, and it makes Stiles’ ears ring. “No one said thisss- this- this would hurt so bad,” it moans, finishing the sentence off with a harsh, wet cough.

“What would?” Stiles asks anxiously. 

_”Turning,”_ it shrieks and Stiles’ stomach flops. 

His palms feel sweaty, clammy. He rubs them off on his jeans. “You mean like a bite- like a werewolf bite?” 

“You know?” it rasps, it sounds desperate, maybe a little relieved. 

“Yeah, yeah I know,” Stiles says, weary. “You took a bite?”

“He said I could be like theeem,” it hisses. Stiles thinks they sound less and less human by the second. “Strong- immortal.”

Stiles furrows his brow. He knows a lot about werewolves, and immortality is certainly not one of them. Also, the wild, alpha-less pack is sounding not so much alpha-less anymore, if they’re turning people. “The pack? Like, eight people?”

It whines again, for a long time. “Yes.”

“Shit, okay,” Stiles says, ruffling his hair a little. He’s too tired and too hungry to be thinking this much right now.

“I’m going to die,” it hums.

Stiles shakes his head. “No you aren’t, can you just help me up? I can help you,” he says a little frantically. Even if he can’t help him that much, the pack should be able to do something, and this has been his only shot at escape. 

“Up?”

 

“From down here, please.”

“No, I can’t,” they moan again, more high strung and pained than before. 

“What? Why not? I can help you!” Stiles says a little desperately.

“I hurt-it hurtss,” they slur. Stiles thinks he hears the person slump against one of the stairs. 

“I know,” Stiles assures, which isn’t really true. “But if you can help me, I can help you?”

“Do you hurt too?” they ask again. They almost sound drunk.

“What? No,” Stiles says, confused.

“Ohh.”

“But I can’t get out of here if you don’t help me,” Stiles presses. 

“I don’t want to die- I’mm, I’m scared of dying.”

“Then you have to help me out of here,” Stiles begs. He’s bouncing his leg furiously now, all nervous energy and a desperate need to get out.

“Can you make it stop?” it asks and Stiles hears a wet sound, like water or something being poured on the floor. It just resumes whining horribly, enough that it’s haunting and makes Stiles want to cover his ears to block it out. 

“Yes, yes! I can make it stop,” Stiles shouts. He hopes desperately that whatever is wrong with the werewolf that it stops it from detecting the uncertainty in his voice and undermining lie.

“Ohh good,” It says, his voice wet. “That’s good.”

“So please help me out?” Stiles says, hears his own voice crack. He won’t cry though, he won’t. 

“It’ll hurt,” it moans again. They sound like a broken record.

“It’ll hurt worse if you don’t,” Stiles says, wringing his hands out now. He’s so close to getting out it’s driving him wild.

“Worse?” it gasps, voice wavering. It sounds horrified and miserable. 

“Yeah,” Stiles says even though he feels guilty for saying it.

“No, I can’t-” he shrieks. “No more.”

Stiles does cover his ears this time, clamping his eyes shut. 

“No moree, I’m falling apart- pleasee.”

Stiles tries desperately to tune it out but his howling continues and it gets harder to ignore.

“If you reach your arm down can you reach me?” Stiles shouts over the howling and moaning. It goes silent almost instantly.

“Me?”

Stiles tries not to scream in frustration. “Yes.”

“Ohh.”

Stiles waits.

“Ohh, no. No, you’re so far away. You’re like a speck,” it says miserably and Stiles swallows down his panic.

“How far?”

“Soo far- I can hardly make out your tiny little shape down there- in- so dark.. In the dark.”

Stiles’ breath comes out a bit quicker. “Oh.”

“Please help me,” it whines.

Stiles feels tears sting his eyes. “I can’t!” He says, digging his heels down into the ground beneath him. “I can’t help you from down here!”

“Ohh god, but you said-”

“I said you have to help me up first,” Stiles says, and he’s not sure if he’s closer to throwing a shoe or breaking down in tears. 

“I can’t reach,” it says before he hears the splatter of something above him again and this time Stiles realizes it sounds like he’s retching. It’s followed almost instantly by more horrible sounds.

“Is there- is there a ladder around, or a rope?” Stiles asks, wracking his brain to try and remember if he’d seen anything when he was searching the house before. 

“No,” it whines.

“Can you look, please? Please, just fucking look!”

“I can’t, it _hurts,”_ he says for what feels like the millionth time and Stiles has to bite the back of his hand to stop himself from completely losing it. It isn’t until he tastes copper that he realizes how hard he was biting.

“Shit,” he murmurs, waving his hand off to try and quell the throbbing.

“Oh, god,” it groans, he can hear it writhing from the floor. “You smell- you smell good.”

Stiles feels queasy. Somehow having his best friend almost murder him after being turned isn’t half as terrifying as the words that just tumbled out of an unseen creature somewhere above him. “What?”

“You just-” it groans. “I’m hungry-”

 

Stiles swallows thickly and drums his fingers against his leg. “Can you find a way to get me out?” he asks with a little more hesitation. 

“You smell warm- you knoww?”

Stiles closes his eyes. “Go find a ladder.”

“God, I’m empty.”

“Go find a fucking ladder!”

The room falls into silence. The only thing he can hear is their equally labored breathing. For a moment Stiles feels a little hope like he might actually go find a way to get Stiles out. Then, he hears the whining start up again, louder and more persistent. Stiles almost screams with frustration, like he’s sure whoever the wack job is, they must be doing this just to be impossible, but then it turns more guttural, more purely pain and Stiles isn’t so sure.

He realizes then that he doesn’t even know the things name, doesn’t know what their gender is or age. Stiles feels a weird kind of helpless. 

“I’m dying,” they say flatly through ragged, wet breaths. It sounds like they’re inhaling water.

“No, no, you’re fine,” Stiles says quickly in response because if they die Stiles is going to go insane and he’s never going to get out of here.

“It’s all over…”

“What?” Stiles says. “What is?”

“The- is it blood?” they ask and Stiles isn’t sure if he’s meant to answer or not, it’s not like he can see. “It’s so thick- it’s black-”

Stiles’ brain finally puts the pieces together in a horrible mash or horror and anxiety. “It’s rejecting,” Stiles mumbles, words tumbling out of his mouth. The bite is rejecting and the person up there is really going die and Stiles can’t do anything but listen and Stiles is going to be _stuck_ down here for all of it. 

“It smells like them.”

“What does?” Stiles asks shakily. There’s no shot at even trying to cover the anxiety and tremor in his voice now.

“The blood- the black, it smells like the people ww-with you,” the voice says through another fit of wet coughing. Stiles can only assume it’s the same black substrance likely leaking from every orifice now.

“The people wi-” Stiles can’t even finish his sentence as horror bleeds into him, body shaking. His eyes are wide, looking into the blackness. His whole body is stiff but he can’t seem to get himself to move an inch. The people with him are the bodies scattering the floor around him, piled high like some kind of sickening fortress wall. The bodies smell like the person up there because, to Stiles’ horror, they had all taken and rejected the bite too. He was sitting in a pit full of dead werewolves. Every bit of sludge he’d drug his knees and hands through was the thick residue of the black ooze that came with rejection. Steve gags several times. 

“Is it bet-better down there? Doesn’t hurt-?” it asks.

“N-no, no,” Stiles shakes his head, heart pounding wildly in his chest. _“I think I can almos’ reach you.”_

Stiles feels the first few tears run down his cheeks, hot and salty. His shoulders are shaking even more than the rest of him as he draws his body in closer, tighter. He makes himself as small as possible but it still feels like the walls are closing in. “please- stop,” Stiles hiccups. He feels like he can’t move, can’t even breathe. It’s suffocating. 

“Almos’ rea’ youu.”

Stiles puts his arms over his head almost like a shield but he can still feel the pinpricks on his hair standing on end on his neck and he can still hear the wheeze that comes from them every time they breathe, everytime they move. Stiles almost falls over himself when there’s a loud crack, floorboards splintering as a body, heavy and limp crashes to the floor, just inches from where Stiles is sitting, thick, warm, wetness spraying Stiles and the surrounding area. Stiles doesn’t even notice he’s screaming until he hears it echoing. The tears are heavier now, openly sobbing as he shakes, knees pulled in tight to his chest. 

“I just want out,” Stiles manages to himself even though his quickened breathing and heavy sobs. 

“Outt?” a voice asks is a mushy voice from very close to where Stiles is huddled and he jumps back instantly.

“Oh-oh my god,” Stiles says, chest rising and falling far too quickly. “You’re alive?”

“Mmmm, I thin’ so,” it rasps, cackling a little before coughing again. 

Stiles moves a little further back. “Oh god,” Stiles repeats. 

“I reached you,” the voice hums. 

“Why would you do that?” Stiles asks, sucking in a breath, another bout of tears running down his face. “Why would you do that to me? How am I going to get out now? How can I get out?”

There’s no answer and Stiles lets his head fall forwards into his knees. He cries until his throat is raw and his head is pounding. His breathing stays too fast, much like his heart, and the shaking his body has decided on isn’t settling down much, either. A scream rips out of Stiles’ throat when a shaky, wet hand touches his face, against the side of his cheek where his face isn’t hidden. “What are you doing?” Stiles shrieks, sobbing harder as he tries to jerk away from the touch. “Stop!”

“You’re warm,” it drawls on, his fingers grazing Stiles face again before he’s able to jerk away again. 

“Stop, go away,” Stiles begs. 

“You said you’d help me,” the person says, tumbling over its own tongue. 

“You didn’t help me! You fucked me over!” Stiles shouts, shaking violently now, not quite sure where the persons’ body begins and ends.

It whines again, shrill in Stiles’ ears. Its worse at such close proximity, Stiles cringes. “Help me! ‘M gonna fall all apart,” it begs and Stiles lets out a desperate cry. 

“I can’t! I don’t know how,” he sobs, shaking his head. It’s worse than even his very worst nightmares, he thinks. There’s a realness to it he can’t shake now. The smell, the taste, the fear. 

“You lied?” it asks, words wet and sloppy. He hears more liquid hit the ground.

“No- I just- I can’t,” Stiles says around a sob. 

“Ohh,” it says, high pitched, though Stiles is fairly sure it’s a man. He hears it move, hears it pick itself up onto its hands and knees and drag itself forward and there’s nowhere else for Stiles to go. Stiles recoils, shaking his head violently as he tries to make himself smaller, safer, anything, but there’s nothing he can do and it only takes seconds before he feels a hand on his leg, close to his thigh. Stiles’ breaths come out quicker and shorter as he cries, his head becoming dizzy and light.

The thing's hands claw at Stiles to pull itself up and onto him, heaving and moaning in pain while he does. Stiles can feel its breath on his face, he can smell it too- sour. It gives up eventually, once it’s fully over Stiles’ body and it collapses, wheezing loudly until it just stops, and it dies there. The person- the almost werewolf dies, full weight sinking into Stiles who falls back with the heaviness of it. His head cracks against the ground but he doesn’t even feel the pain, just the overwhelming flood of panic he can’t even try to push back anymore and he thrashes wildly and desperately to move the body off of him but his fingers slip through the black slime and he can’t find good purchase on its body. They’re heavy too, and even now nothing will let him push it aside.

So, Stiles is resided to lay awkwardly, body cramped and twisted, under the body of a thing that wasn’t quite human or werewolf when it died. He cries. He cries until his body literally won’t give him anything else to cry and his throat has gone so hoarse that his breathing sounds wheezy and light, almost gravelly when he sucks in another breath, panic attack refusing to subside. His whole brain goes blank. It gives up just as much as Stiles’ muscles and he lays in defeat and cries, mindless as he stares into nothing. He tries to kick a couple of times but it does nothing and it only frustrates him more, if anything.

He doesn’t want to die here. He’s faced things so much more dangerous than a basement room. He’s fought literal zombies, he’s faced a Kanima and won, he’s learned some kind of wild magic from a fucking veterinarian that just happens to also be an emissary. He doesn’t want to die alone with no real threat. He hasn’t felt so rawly human in a long time. He’s terrified.

His head throbs and throbs at his temple and the base of his skull, to the point his ears start to ring and he feels nauseous from all of the pain. He loses track of time, just lets himself slip somewhere where it’s quieter and it’s warm and safe. His brain gives him that, at least.

He hears the sound of the house settle, floorboards creak and groan. He hears lots of things but it sounds like he’s hearing it from underwater. Nothing sounds so loud and harsh anymore, he can ignore it. By now his eye’s are so heavy and tired, overwhelmed by the constant dark that Stiles isn’t entirely sure if his eyes are open or closed anymore. He’s not sure it really matters. At least he’s warm again. He feels warm coming up all around him, it’s nice. 

It’s nice and it’s calm, he can’t even hear his awful ragged breathing anymore. He isn’t even sure if he’s breathing but some part of him is sure he must be. 

It all falls away in an instant though, his safe wall breaks down like glass, shattering against the floor. All of the sounds come rushing back at once, too loud and too real, and the weight of what’s on him sets in. His head pounds again, he can hear his breathing- he can hear his screaming. 

“Stiles, Stiles! Hey, look at me!” a voice snaps at him but Stiles can hardly even hear it over the sound of his own voice. His eyes are clamped shut and he’s stiff as a board. 

“Get that off of him,” another voice says, less calm than the other.

Stiles’ mind reels because he knows that voice, he knows-

His head hurts so much and the pressure only builds up more and more as the screaming and broken sobbing continues but he can’t stop- he’s not sure how, not sure he wants to. The hot, heavy weight on him is shoved off and he’s torn because part of him feels relieved but now he can feel the cold sinking into his skin again.

“Stiles, I need you to focus, come on,” the first voice says again, Stiles almost wants to listen. He just wants to back to that safe, warm, quiet place again, though. More than anything. 

“Derek,” the second, more nervous voice says.

Derek.

_Derek._

Derek and Scott and-

There’s a firm hand on his shoulder that makes him jerk back, shaking too much to stop. Stiles makes an involuntary noise at the contact that doesn’t even sound like him and his eyes snap open. 

The room isn’t as dark as it was before- he can see now. It’s dimly lit with the glow of a smartphone’s flashlight, bright enough it makes Stiles’ eyes ache and squint. 

“Hey there, you with us?” the closest voice asks and Stiles' head swims. He feels lightheaded. 

Stiles opens his mouth but no words come out and he feels his body continue to shake. 

“Stiles?”

“I don’t want t-to die here,” Stiles stammers out and the hand on his arm tightens a little.

“You aren’t going to die here,” the voice says, growing in familiarity. It’s Derek, he knows it- but it’s still distant, growing more and more so. He feels like he’s dreaming, he must be. “We’re here, alright?”

Stiles’ head lulls to the side a little. It’s too much work to even try and hold himself up. His eyes fall onto the room as a whole now, softly illuminated. The room is big, maybe bigger than he’d originally thought, really. It’s dirty too, planks of wood leaning against the walls and scattered on the floor, thick with dirt and cobwebs and broken bits of glass and splintered wood. Then his eyes travel to the heaps of bodies. There’s over a dozen in one pile alone, along with various other corpses lying limp around him. Stiles shakes his head, making a long drawn out noise like a sob.

“Please no- I just- I just want to go,” Stiles sobs, bringing his arms back over his head to try and protect himself or at least shield it out of his line of vision.

“Your dad is on his way, hang in there buddy,” Scott says from behind the light. It’s familiar now. 

“They’re here!” he hears someone- Lydia?- shout from upstairs, loud enough that Stiles flinches. It’s only moments after that, that he hears the sirens. 

Stiles’ body is manhandled into a better sitting position though he doesn’t want to and it makes his vision swim and his nausea worsen. Derek keeps a steadying hand on his back though, the one still on his arm in a comforting kind of gesture. 

Stiles looks to his other side just to see the room and regrets it almost instantly. The body laying next to him is still pliant and warm, oozing thick, black mucus from his eyes and mouth, shirt covered in it. _Stiles is covered in it._ He’d been talking to the man just a while ago, he’d crawled to Stiles for help and-

Stiles writhes with the sudden, unshakable urge to get away, get _away._

“No, no, no. oh God, please- please I can’t help you-” Stiles vomits up the words before his brain ever catches up. Scott steps out into his line of sight, blocking him from the body he knows is still lying there. He crouches down and looks at Stiles, brows drawn together. It’s his usual puppy face and he gently wipes away some of Stiles’ frantic tears, even as they keep falling.

“Don’t worry about that right now, okay? It’s alright. Let’s just get you out of here, yeah?”

Stiles can’t find the strength to answer, so he just sobs.

“They’re down here,” he hears Lydia say to someone upstairs, almost out of earshot. He hears footsteps. 

“Stiles? Stiles!” he hears his dad shout and Stiles cries a little harder. If it’s all a dream, he doesn’t want to wake up. “Get me a ladder, now!”

The next fifteen or so minutes are a blur. Stiles’ breathing is too fast and even when Scott offers him his inhaler, he can’t get himself to take it or let them help him. His head feels foggy and distant while he watches people move around him in slow motion. He sees Lydia standing back against one of the far walls, covering her mouth with a well-manicured hand. 

He sees his dad, hears him talk too, but none of it reaches past the layer of _safe_ that’s washing over him again. He sees a couple deputies he recognizes too, but he can’t quite think of their names. He doesn’t care to try to remember, either. 

Derek lets go of him eventually and he’s moved onto a stretcher or something- Stiles isn’t sure, and he’s lifted up, up, up- and it’s so bright he lets his head take over again, and he slips away.

He vaguely remembers a car ride, sirens wailing so loud he has to sink a little deeper to escape. He remembers muffled voices around him, but not what they said or who they belonged to. He remembers being removed from the car too, his vision a blur as he’s carried, but he can’t find it in him to care. He’s finally run dry and he’s numb now. 

He’s sat down on a couch that smells like home and only then does his body surprise him with the ability to produce more tears.

“Hey, hey, Stiles, what’s wrong?” Scott asks worriedly from infront of him where he’s crouched down by the couch. He can see a bleary version of Derek and Lydia and even Allison, standing a little further back.

Stiles doesn’t try to answer and he lets his body cry until he’s sure he’s dry as a well. His father comes into the room holding a cup of water, he looks so worried and tired. Stiles isn’t sure he’s ever seen him look so bad. “Here, small sips, kiddo,” his dad says as he helps the cup to Stiles’ lips. The second the water touches his mouth he takes in a gulp, letting the coolness run down his throat, wash away the grime from his mouth, no longer dry and tender. He drinks fast and as much as he can and it doesn’t turn red or thick and Stiles could cry again for that alone. 

“Easy there,” his dad reminds, taking the cup back. “You’re really dehydrated. Take it slow, okay?”

Stiles falls forward until he meets his dad's chest and he tucks himself away there, where it’s safe.

He doesn’t remember much after that, just his dad's gentle voice and warm body, distant conversation. He doesn’t remember falling asleep, though, which he must have done at some point because when he opens his eye’s again, he has to blink away sleep and he’s staring up at his bedroom ceiling. He’s in his bed, tucked away under clean sheets. He even finds himself dressed in a clean T-shirt and some pajama pants. He doesn’t feel grimy or disgusting and his once black coated skin appears clean. He feels five pounds lighter. He slowly sits up, his head still a bit swimmy. 

“How do you feel?” Derek asks from by his desk and Stiles jumps visibly.

“What- what are you doing here?” Stiles says, trying to ease the tremors his body is threatening to start up again.

“I finally got Scott to go home and get some rest,” Derek says, arms folded over his chest in his usual brooding fashion. “Told him I would wait until you woke up, just in case.” 

Stiles feels a little smile tug at his lips. “Oh.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Derek points out and Stiles blinks at him. “How do you feel?” he repeats.

“Oh,” Stiles says, looking himself over again. The cut on his arm is bandaged nicely, he’s sure he can thank Melissa for that. Nothing really hurts, though. “I’m okay. Kinda dizzy,” he admits.

Derek nods. “You were out for almost two days,” Derek says. “I think we were about to call it comatose.”

“Did Derek Hale just crack a joke?” Stiles asks, smiling tiredly. Derek doesn’t meet his eyes and shrugs but he’s fairly sure he saw a smile. 

“Anyways, I’m glad you’re up. You had Scott worried.”

Stiles looks down at his lap, the sheets all crumped around his waist from sitting up. “Is my dad okay?”

“He’s fine. Melissa stayed with him.”

Stiles smiles a bit again. “Good.” 

There’s a pause but Derek makes no attempt to leave so Stiles decides to ask a million questions still rooting around in his head. “How’d you find me?”

“We started looking almost immediately after you didn’t regroup,” Derek says. “Scott already knew something was wrong.”

Stiles finds that, that knowledge makes him glow a little. There’s some pride in knowing Scott really knows Stiles. 

“Problem was, we couldn’t pick up on your scent, and when we did, we’d lose it a half a mile or less later. Turns out the house was surrounded with some kind of werewolf scent-warding spell, keep the place off the radars.”

“So it keeps werewolves from smelling the place?”

“And the things inside,” Derek confirms. “We kept checking the woods but we couldn’t find anything, it was actually Allison who picked up on something.”

“What was it?”

Derek hesitates. “The black stuff? From a body rejecting the bite?” Stiles bites his lip but he nods for him to continue, trying to push aside the images that his brain desperately wants him to see. “She found some of it close to the house, so we followed it. Lydia and Allison smelled it before we ever did, because of the spell. But the house-”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Stiles frowns. “I was there. I know what it smelled like.”

Derek almost looks apologetic but he doesn’t say anything, just continues with the story. “Once we were inside we could- well we could hear you down there. You weren’t very coherent but I know what you sound like.”

Stiles feels oddly embarrassed, suddenly. He doesn't remember making any sound at all, but he guesses it saved his life. 

“After that, we called the station and went down to you.”

Stiles takes a moment to let it all sink in. it sounds so simple, hearing Derek explain it, but being down there had felt more like an eternity, twisting through a labyrinth. “Thanks, Derek.” Derek looks back at Stiles, eyebrow raised.

“For- for saving me.” his voice cracks a little and he hates it but every time he closes his eyes he swears he can hear the awful howling from the man.

“Don’t,” Derek says sternly and Stiles looks at him, weary. “It wasn’t some graceful, perfect rescue. It took days, people died and you could’ve been killed.”

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut. “I thought I was going to die,” Stiles says, voice pitched. He can feel himself fighting back tears but he’s not sure what the point it. Derek can smell his fear, his tears behind his eyelids. He’s already been as vulnerable as he could be infront of the whole pack. The last thing he expects is when he feels the bed dip beside him and to feel an unsure hand rest on his knee.

“But you didn’t,” Derek offers quietly, and suddenly it feels like the whole world is just Stiles’ room and just them. “You’re okay.”

“I’m not,” Stiles says before his voice breaks and a tear escapes. He tries to ignore it, running his hands over his face. His heart is already too fast again. “I’m not okay.”

Derek doesn’t say anything but it doesn’t matter because Stiles has opened the floodgates and now he can’t stop. He isn’t sure he would stop even if he could.

“I’m not okay,” he says again, letting an open-mouthed sob fall from his lips. “I chased fucking werewolves through the woods completely defenseless and with a dead phone. I fell through a floor into a- into a basement full of fucking corpses of dead people that rejected the bite and no one noticed! No one found me! I had someone crawl onto me and beg for me to save them I couldn’t! I couldn’t do anything and he died,” Stiles cries, and he’s loud enough he’s sure his dad can hear if he’s home.

Derek’s silent for almost a full minute. It’s a heavy silence and Stiles cries softly through it, running his hands up and down his pant legs. It doesn’t calm him down any but it gives him something to do with all of the pent up anxiety in him. “That’s okay too,” he says finally and god, that’s the weirdest thing he’s ever heard come from Derek’s mouth.

“What?” Stiles asks, wiping his runny nose with the back of his hand. 

“You don’t have to be okay right now, with all of this,” Derek says, his expression somehow more serious than usual. “You’re just a human, Stiles.”

Stiles chokes on a laugh. “It’s apparent, yeah.” 

Derek shakes his head. “The things you’ve been through this week alone is enough to send the strongest men to an insane asylum,” Derek says and Stiles grimaces at the memories of his own time there. “You’re strong Stiles, and you need to take your time to recover.”

“I hate it,” Stiles sniffles, bunching up the fabric in his hands. He’s still shaking, like a constant little tremor running through his body. It’s that cloud of anxiety he can’t shake, he feels like he’s plummeting deeper and deeper. He’s not ready to do that again.

“I know. It makes you feel weak,” Derek offers and he’s right. 

“I already felt weak- I didn’t need- didn’t need that.”

“You’re not weak, Stiles,” Derek says and he actually laughs. It’s a foreign sound.

Stiles rubs his eyes but he can’t stop the tears now either. “Don’t.” 

“Stiles,” Derek says, and he squeezes Stiles’ knee. “You aren’t weak, you’re just down right now and you need time to get back up.”

Stiles keeps rubbing at his eyes but the tears keep coming and he shakes his head. “This is different. I don’t know how to come back from this.”

“I didn’t know how to pick myself up either, you know,” Derek says and Stiles already knows he’s talking about the fire. “But here I am.”

“Yeah, a total hard-ass,” Stiles sniffles, trying to hide his face. He’s sure he looks disgusting, miserable and crying, his face is probably splotchy, too. “God- I can’t get the smell out of my nose.”

Derek frowns at him and Stiles shuts his eyes for a moment. “It was a lot, you know? The smell?” Stiles says, voice shaking.

“Yeah, I know.”

“It’s like I’m still there, like it’s still in my fucking nose,” Stiles says around more tears. 

“But you aren’t there anymore,” Derek says seriously. “You’re home and you’re safe with the pack and with your dad.”

Stiles sniffles again. Gross, he needs a tissue. “Thanks, Derek,” Stiles mumbles. He isn’t sure he believes everything he’s saying because as much as Stiles completely worships the guy like a freaking God, he isn’t sure he can get himself back on his feet. Not alone, at least.

“That’s why we’re here, you know? To help,” Derek says and Stiles’ heart skips and he knows Derek knows too. “That’s why I’m here.”

Stiles looks at Derek through damp eyelashes. “You’re being sappy,” Stiles teases halfheartedly. 

“It’s working, though,” Derek says and Stiles hates that he’s right. Stiles can already feel his heart rate slowing down in his chest.

“Yeah, kinda.”

“Stiles?”

“Hm?”

“Look at me,” Derek says and Stiles does, a little hesitant because he feels dumb. “I’m here to help you, I’m here to anchor you, okay?”

Stiles feels warm. “Oh,” he says dumbly, trying not to make his stupid middle-school crush horribly noticeable. “Thank you?”

“I’m being serious,” Derek says and he really doesn’t need to because Stiles can tell he’s being serious. Very serious. But, Stiles’ stupid brain wants to interpret his words in a million different ways. None of them are likely how Derek means it, like in a supportive manner- oh no, Stiles’ brain wants to take it as some kind of heartfelt message. 

“Yeah, I know,” Stiles mumbles.

“Stiles?”

“Uh, yeah-huh?” Stiles asks, chewing on his bottom lip which is still a bit raw from before. 

“You’re my anchor, let me be yours.”

Stiles is pretty sure the world stops spinning because he so didn’t hear Derek say that. He still feels anxious and dizzy and just kind of awful but there’s no way. “What?” Stiles chokes, pulling tighter at his pant legs until he’s practically white-knuckling them. 

Derek is looking at him still, practically unblinking. He’s not joking, Stiles is pretty damn sure. Not that he’s really sure he’d know what a joke would look like coming from Derek. Derek leans forward on the bed and presses a gentle kiss to Stiles' head. “Okay?” 

Stiles gapes at him when he pulls back and even though he feels kind of chilled and feverish, he can tell he must be bright red because his face feels hot as hell itself. “Derek?”

Derek just chuckles. “Was that okay?” he asks and it feels like Stiles has been thrown into some cliche romance. 

“Can’t you tell already?” Stiles asks, his voice far less steady than he’d been hoping for. “By my heartbeat, I mean?” he manages.

“I can just tell you’re nervous, honestly,” Derek says, giving Stiles a teasing look. “Your heart is beating like crazy.”

“Oh, well- yeah,” Stiles flushes.

“Sorry,” Derek says seriously. 

“What? No- don’t be,” Stiles stammers. “It was fine- it was good.”

Derek chuckles. He looks almost uncomfortable like he’s bordering outside his comfort zone. Stiles can understand that.

“What- what was that, though?” Stiles asks, twisting his fingers together in a big knot. 

“A poor attempt at wooing you or something, I think,” Derek says and Stiles laughs.

“I don’t think I ever thought of you being this awkward Mr. Macho-Wolf and all.”

“I’m not,” Derek says maybe a little too defensively. “Not usually, at least.”

“Are you saying Stiles Stilinski makes you nervous?” Stiles asks, beaming. His hands aren’t quite so shaky anymore and there are butterflies in his tummy. “Seriously?”

“Shut up, Stiles,” Derek remarks, shooting him a very intimidating glare. “Don’t make me regret all of this, okay?”

Stiles just grins wider. He’s counted his fingers, twice now, and he certainly has ten altogether, five on each hand, so no, he isn’t dreaming. “So what- you like me?” Stiles asks and God, it sounds stupid. Derek laughs a little too.

“You sound like a ten-year-old,” Derek says and Stiles puts his hands up defensively. 

“Hey, it’s a fair question, alright?”

“Yeah, it is,” Derek sighs like he’s dreading having to explain himself. Stiles kind of feels like this is the most he’s opened up around anyone in the past several years, which is equally sad and funny. “I don’t know. I see the way you look at me Stiles, everyone does.”

“Oh, well, this is awkward.”

“I guess you rubbed off on me or something.”

“Nice choice of words,” Stiles teases and Derek groans.

“Which was a huge mistake on my part because you’re despicable.”

“Ouch,” Stiles says, faking a wince. “But seriously, what made you- I mean, I don’t know- this is just very new. Actually, the whole date-y thing is very new too. It’s all new.”

Derek shakes his head, eyes rolling back like they do generally after hearing Stiles say _anything._ “I don’t know, honestly. Maybe it was you going missing, maybe it was something else, but I want to- I want to try and move on.”

Stiles isn’t sure if Derek means move on from Kate or something else but Stiles is really fine with whatever if that means he gets a shot with Derek freaking Hale. “is this a dating thing or a sex thing, because honestly, I’m fine with either.”

“Jesus,” Derek groans, rubbing a hand over his face. “Uh- an I want to be here for you and maybe kind of want to do stupid, sappy things like kiss you just to get you to shut up.”

“Poetic, but I approve.”

Derek lets out a breath Stiles hadn’t noticed he was holding in. “okay- that’s good.”

Stiles offers a little smile.

“You’re still nervous,” Derek points out gently.

Stiles shrugs. “I think that’s an overall thing right now?”

“Right, that maybe wasn’t the best time.”

“I doubt you would’ve ever done it if you hadn’t done it now,” Stiles says and Derek doesn’t meet his gaze. “And I know I kinda just woke up but christ, I’m so fucking tired.”

Derek stands up almost instantly, like a hair trigger and nods quickly. “Of course, I’ll let everyone know you’re okay or at least awake.” 

“You can do that later,” Stiles says softly. “Maybe you could just lay with me in the meantime…?”

Derek stares at Stiles for several uncomfortable seconds. Stiles isn’t sure where their personal line is drawn and he’d kinda dove for it which he’s quickly regretting. 

“Yeah, yeah, sure.” Derek nods.

“Wait, really?” Stiles asks, looking up from where he was tracing patterns into his mattress.

“Whatever makes you feel better.”

Stiles smiles a little and scoots over so he isn’t taking up the whole bed anymore and pats the spot next to him. “Come at your own risk, then, I guess,” Stiles teases and Derek rolls his eyes before climbing carefully into bed beside Stiles, and even though it’s kind of awkward and Derek is refusing to move like he’s made of wood, Stiles feels almost instantly at ease. “I’ll warn you now,” Stiles yawns, turning onto his side so he can get comfortable again, tucking his head into the pillow. “I’m a cuddler.”

“I’ll manage,” Derek responds, and Stiles’ eyes are already drifting shut but he’s pretty sure he could hear the smile in Derek’s voice.


End file.
